A Favorite Son Page 2

  She would never wear a burka, unlike my grandmother Sarah, bless her soul, who must be turning in her grave, horrified at the thought of modesty lost. Instead of the traditional loose clothes covering the entire body, my mother adorned herself with exotic silks, bought from merchants in Damascus, which hugged her figure tightly. The silks, I mean—not the merchants.

  She collected an array of translucent, sheer veils of fantastic rainbow colors, which she wore, I am told, on her wedding night. My father found it enchanting. The first time he had actually seen her face was, of course, the morning after. With the veil removed, she had fainted upon seeing him. It was not the excitement of first love. No—it must have been the corset, a tight undergarment contraption which, according to gossip, she had brought with her from the North, to keep her figure in shape.

  Everyone knew she was homesick. It was no secret she would have done anything, back then, for a trip back home—but this being the middle of nowhere, far away from the towns and the settlements, out there in the densely populated regions to the west of us, there was no bus to be found. And my father insisted that a plane ticket was out of the question.

  So instead, my mother decided to acquire stuff: ornamental purses of different shapes and sizes, an assortment of extravagant fur hats, imported from her faraway birthplace, and numerous pairs of snakeskin shoes with high heels, which were ill suited to the desert sand—all of which caused a stir among the local people.

  I can recall how, as a child, I got a rare permission from her to come into the inner part of her tent, behind the screen, and take a peek into her chest. It was overflowing with nose rings, bracelets, and flamboyant clothes. With hesitant fingers I touched one of her shirts, which at the time, was way too big for me.

  “Here, Yankle, try it on,” she offered.

  I did. I can still remember it: The trace of her jasmine perfume, the striped blue-on-white pattern of the weave, and the swooshing sound of the fabric as it flowed over my head and cascaded around my feet. I remember her laughter, her sudden embrace, and a heartbeat later—opening to me out of the shadow, right there behind her back—the watchful eyes of my twin brother Esav, who must have been standing there for a while, without making a sound.

  How my mother sensed his presence—by what quirk of intuition she knew he had been studying us—I will never be able to guess. Perhaps she saw him in my eyes. She looked at me then with an intense look, and in a flash I learned that the unsaid can be more forceful than words. What passed between us at that moment I cannot begin to describe to you. I could hear her heart beat, and at the same instant, the same hammer was pounding in my chest.

  With great calm, she gathered the garment from my hand. Then she folded it back into the chest with slow, measured movements, lowered the lid and with a clack, locked it. “Go out, Esav, go play,” she said, without even bothering to turn her head, without even looking at him. And then she added softly, “You too, Yankle.”

  In two shakes of a lamb’s tail we were outside. His hair was flowing, thick and wild, in the wind as he chased me, caught me, punched me down.

  All the while, I knew: I would never forget her love, her letting me wear that unusually beautiful, striped shirt. And neither would he.

  What more can I say, son? What can I tell you about my mother? She was a woman of many charms. Her clothes were striking, her footwear unconventional—but her most prized possession was a long-sleeved goatskin coat. It had a different feel, a different touch than the hide of a kid in our herds, because it came from afar, from the slopes of the snow-covered mountains in the North, where the goats, I am told, have fine, long, human-like hair.

  Why my mother had brought this coat with her, why she kept it all these years, I will never know. Your guess is as good as mine. It was of no use here, in the scorching heat of this wasteland. Perhaps it reminded her of her childhood in that distant country, Harran, where the air was cooler, and the sunlight more slanted. She would often lament how far out of reach that place was. Out of reach, getting more remote and more remarkable with time, like a memory of youth.

  The land there, she said, was more fertile, and the language more refined. According to her, it was the cradle of civilization.

  Most winters, there was an abundance of rain, and the mud-brick homes there were taller, better insulated and less given to the wind than our flimsy tents.

  Yes, she treasured that coat, and would let no one—not even me—touch it. If there was any mending to be done, she would do it herself, which caused the maidservants to raise their eyebrows.

  It was kept safely in her chest, hidden from the eyes of the world, until the day came when she ripped it to shreds. I will never forget it. If I close my eyes, close them tight, then—in an instant—I can see it happening again, right here in front of me.

  It is sunrise...

  ❋

  I awake with a start. Standing over me is the head-servant. Never before has he entered my tent without a prompt, loud greeting ahead of time. That in itself gives me a first clue that something is amiss.

  “Yankle,” he breathes in my ear, “wake up!”

  With my eyes half open, I can tell he looks bent out of shape, more so than ever. Something, I say to myself, is definitely out of order—but I wish I can sleep it off.

  Eliezer is the best butler you could wish to have. He served many masters in his time, and worked many years for grandpa Abraham, and then for my father, Isaac—but his devotion, above anyone else, lies with one person: My mother. He would move mountains for her.

  Eliezer has been her confidant as long as I can remember, ever since he escorted her from her homeland, all these years ago. They traveled aboard camelbacks, over the backbones of treacherous mountains and along snaking rivers. He never spoke, not even a word, about the dangers of that journey, nor about his unyielding courage to guard the young girl. He brought her here, to this wasteland, to marry his master’s son, a man older than her by fifteen years: My father.

  Around here, everyone seems to admire my father. True, Isaac is a wise, old man, but between me and you—dare I say it?—he is a wimp. How else can you explain him? A righteous man. A man who did nothing wrong all his life, did nothing at all, not a thing worth telling. Too much of a weakling to set out on his own journey, find his own girl, propose to her family, and give her the ride of her life by bringing her here, aboard his own camel.

  Some speculate that at the time, he was undergoing some psychological counseling. Others insist he was doing nothing of the kind. At any rate, word is that he had certain—how shall we say it—problems. Something having to do with his relations, of all things, with his father. The binding of Isaac, people would say—but only when they think I am not listening.

  Let them keep their own secrets. I’ll keep mine.

  A hand touches my shoulder and at once, my eyes pop open. I look up: Bending over me like a thin, fragile wire is the old head-servant, Eliezer.

  “Your mother says, stop dreaming,” he tells me. “She says, come quick.”

  The sleep lifts from my eyes. I leap to my feet and scramble over to her place.

  Behind the curtain, she must have recognized my footsteps. The flaps of her tent are lifted before me by an invisible hand. I step in. Once my eyes get used to the dark interior, my mother takes hold of my shoulders and very gently, turns me around, so now I face the crack of sunlight in the canvas.

  “The time has come,” she whispers in my ear.

  Through that crack I spot a figure out there, in the distance. Walking away from us, past the peaks of the scattered tents, way past the grazing fields, beating the dust at his heels into angry clouds, is my twin brother, Esav. His bow curves powerfully over his shoulder, and in his hand—a shining arrow.

  “Look out,” says my mother. “He is out for the kill.”

  “Well,” I shrug. “What do I care. He isn’t aiming at me, is he?”

  “In a way, he is.”

  She notes the sudden confusion in my e
yes. “I love you, dear, I do. But your father,” she pauses for a second. “Your father is blind to reason. He has his heart set on your brother.”

  “What does love have to do with anything,” I say, hearing the tremble in my voice. “Between Esav and me, the deal is sealed already. He is such an idiot! Such a hairy fool, to sell me his birthright. And for what, for a lentil stew? How greedy can a person be? But at this point, what’s done is done. We shook hands on it! Now I am he. I am the firstborn son. Everybody knows that. Even dad.”

  “Really?” she says, mockingly. “But you see, to a blind man, that does not matter.”

  By which she means, my old man. In the span of the last six months, he has been losing his eyesight, so that by now, he is completely blind. But the way she has just said it—that inflection in her voice, that note of contempt—tells me a whole lot. It tells me that to her, my father has become a burden.

  “His body is growing weaker,” she says. “But his mind? As stubborn as ever.”

  “He is preparing himself,” I say, in a cautious tone of voice. “Is he? Preparing himself—to die?”

  “He is,” she confirms.

  And without having to ask, I instantly grasp what she fears—what I fear as well—what, at this point, is about to take place. My father is on his deathbed. He wishes to give his last word, which around here, is the equivalent of what you may call, a Last Will.

  At stake are not just his physical assets, not just the fortune inherited from grandpa Abraham and later, amassed by my father, Isaac, over the course of a lifetime—but more than anything, his blessing. His vision for both Esav and me. He will foretell our future, even the survival of our descendants in generations to come. His words will be magical, everyone here knows that. Once uttered, these words can never be erased, nor can they be altered, and for certain, they will hold sway over our fate: The blessed son will become the master, the other one—a slave.

  This is what is at stake here. The question of existence in history. The promise of success. My father wishes to give it, all of it, to his firstborn. And it makes no difference if I own the birthright, makes no difference to him.

  The hunt is on. The meat Esav brings back from the hunt, that meat will become a love offering. In exchange, the old man will bless his chosen, his favorite child, the one he trusts.

  And the birthright of the firstborn? What about that right? It is about to be trampled. Just my luck! Now that I have it, it has become worthless: No one cares anymore. The old man cares nothing for me. I will be left out. Left out in the cold.

  “Come with me,” says my mother. “We don’t have much time.”

  I follow her behind the screen, to the deeper part of the tent. A dim light is streaming down, filtered coarsely through the canvas.

  In the far corner, glimmering under a ray of light, stands her old chest. With a rusty creak, the lid comes open, revealing a secret compartment, out of which rises a long, hairy thing.

  My mother gathers it softly into her arms, sinks her nails into it. Her eyes close and she takes a deep, sensual breath. Suddenly I recognize it: Her most treasured possession: The goatskin coat.

  “And now,” she says to herself out loud, “let the game begin!”

  There is ring of daring in her voice, as if she is bracing herself for a fight. Who is the enemy? Whom is she preparing to rip apart? I cannot tell. In her mind, this must be a power struggle. What is the prize, for her? Money? Power? Freedom?

  At the tail of these questions, a thought crosses my mind: Can I trust her? Is she trying to manipulate me?

  Still, come what may, I am with her. It suits me to be her partner, her partner even in crime. My mother counts on it. She thinks that for certain, she can control me. She must be relying on my gratitude in the years to come. Now for her, I recognize, this is a dangerous game. If I am not here, by her side, who will shield her from rage? Who will protect her from Esav?

  “Sit down, dear,” she tells me. “Let me measure you for size.”

  In a heartbeat, that unusually beautiful, striped shirt comes to mind. “Mom,” I say plaintively. “This is no time for costumes—”

  “Oh, but it is,” says she, passing her fingers along my arm, rubbing me as if my skin is, somehow, too smooth, too sleek for the touch. Tortured by some vague sense of resentment, which I hate to call envy, I think about Esav. I cannot help but wonder if his arms, which look like a fleece, are more suitable for her taste.

  “Hold out your arms,” she tells me.

  Then, in a blink of an eye, I see her throw the goatskin coat over my outstretched hands. That thing is spread out over me, weighing me down like a dead eagle.

  “Wider,” she says, and then, in a blink of an eye, it happens: That which up to this point, no one has expected—that which I have never thought possible—suddenly transpires before my eyes: Gripping the sleeve in one hand, the collar in the other one, my mother gives a harsh, vigorous pull. And with a sharp, ripping sound, the thing comes apart at the seam!

  I am in utter disbelief. I am in tears. That which is dearest to her is now in shreds. So is my life. So is my family.

  My mother is so focused that she has no time, and no inclination, it seems, to pay attention to my feelings. With a pleat sewn between her eyebrows, and quick, exact moves, she gives a pull here, a tug there until the torn sleeve, with its long, human-like hair, slides halfway over my hand and gets stuck, abruptly, on the elbow.

  At that second it dawns on me—I understand, in its entirety, my mother’s plan, which nearly brings me to split my sides and roar with laughter—but at a single hint from her, I hold it in. No need for other people to hear us.

  Intoxicated, I marvel in her plan, and in my mind I shout: My God, this is so clever! So deceitful! This costume, I think, is so much fun! Designed for the pleasure, so to speak, of a blind man... Ha! What does he know! That damn blessing may yet be mine, after all.

  In my excitement I stumble across a thought, which is so outlandish that immediately, it makes me sober up. “What if he suspects something,” I ask, in a whisper. I hate to admit it, but it is not love for my father, nor respect for his age, that drive me to such hesitation. Rather, it is fear: The fear to be found out.

  She lowers her eyes, thinking intensely, searching for an answer.

  So I press on: “What if he touches me? He will guess, perhaps, that I am not the son I pretend to be. And so, instead of a blessing, I will end up, God forbid, being cursed!”

  What can she say, I wonder. True, my mother is close to me. We could always think alike. But for the life of me, I cannot understand her right now. She is the mother of twins, so in my mind, she should love us both, in fairly equal measures. In the years to come I would often wonder: Why would a woman do this, why would she pit one son against another?

  From the time of her wedding it took her, I am told, twenty years to conceive us. Twenty years of trying, desperately, to become pregnant, because in this place, and for this tribe, of what value is a childless woman?

  So for a long time, she may have resented her social standing here. Her mind became pickled in its own juices, and she ended up being bitter inside, and so utterly devious. But I think, it is one thing for me to cheat my brother. It is another thing altogether, for her to do it to her son.

  After a while, she stirs. Her hand hangs, for a moment, in midair, a motion designed to reach out to me, and hug me, perhaps, in her own manner. Yet I can see that it is only herself, in the end, that she embraces. “On me your sin,” she smiles sweetly, placing a hand on her breast, where the heart can be found. “Let your curse be on me.”

  The sleeve, meanwhile, continues to climb, as if of its own accord, over my shoulder. By now it is covering the entire length of my arm. To my amazement, a part of me seems to have disappeared. Esav’s arm is beginning to take shape in place of mine.

  She leans over me and with a sharp eye, threads her needle. But for some reason, we cannot bear to look at each other eye to eye. “Give me on
e minute, let me mend it,” she says, removed from me, smiling to herself. “We don’t have much time, I’m afraid. Your brother is on the hunt, and so are we.”

  I sit there at her feet watching her work. My mother is so skillful in manipulating that sleeve. Inside of it, my limb feels hot, suffocated. I let her control me, control my hand. It is no longer my hand.

  By and by, a perfect calm comes upon me. I have no thought in my head, no clue that this is to be the last sunrise, the last morning that I spend with my mother; no premonition that our time together is running out, and that I should kiss her, and hug her, and bid her farewell.

  Yet for some reason, glancing around me, I commit to memory every aspect of this scene, every detail: The vivid pattern of the rug, spread across the dirt floor. The embroidered silk pillows, leaning against the woven headrest. The little blemish, barely visible in the corner of the blanket. The silver thread coming apart, at one point, at the bottom of the canvas. The jug of water, half hidden behind the curved leg of the bed.

  I can hear little noises: The occasional cry of a newborn baby, searching blindly for his mother’s breast. The light snores of the maidservants, some of whom are just starting to wake up, only to fall asleep again. The yawns of the shepherd boys, stretching their limbs lazily under the sheepskins in the neighboring tents. The unrest of the sheep, the lambs, the kids, the goats, all eager to go out there, to graze in the sun-flooded fields.

  Meanwhile the needle flies back and forth, forth and back, over my shoulder, catching the light in its path. I am transfixed. I wish I could stay here forever. This place is so full of charms.

  This hour is so intimate, so sweet, and it is fast coming to its bitter conclusion.

  And the only thing that disturbs me, the only thing that stands here between us, is not being able to look each other in the eyes, during the last moments that remain to us.